“Going up into the Feather River country, I bet.  Fellow I know just come back.  Caught the limit, he claims.  They say Lake Almanor has got the best fishing in the State, right now.  Fellow I know seen a ten-pounder pulled outa there.  He brought back one himself that tipped the scales at seven-and-a-half.  He says a pound is about as small as they run up there.  I’m going to try to get on the W.P. that runs up the canyon.  Then some day I’ll drop off and try my luck—­”

“Don’t run to Lake Almanor, does it?  First I ever heard—­”

“No, sure it don’t!  The lake’s away off the railroad—­thirty or forty miles.  I don’t look for a chance to go there fishing.  I mean Feather River—­anywhere along up the canyon.  They say it’s great.  You can sure catch fish!  Lots of little creeks coming down outa the canyon, and all of them full of trout.  You’ll have all kinds of sport.”

“Aw, Russian River’s the place to go,” Jack dissented craftily, and got the reply that he was waiting for.

“Aw, what’s the use of going away up there?  And not get half the fish?  Why, you can take the train at the ferry and in the morning you are right in the middle of the best fishing in the State.  Buh-lieve me, it’ll be Feather River for mine, if I can make the change I want to!  Them that have got the money to travel on, can take the far-off places—­me for the fish, bo, every day in the week.”  He took up his tray and went down the car, offering his wares to the bored, frowsy passengers who wanted only to reach journey’s end.

The next round he made, he stopped again beside Jack.  They talked of fishing—­Jack saw to that!—­and Jack learned that Lake Almanor was nothing more nor less than an immense reservoir behind a great dam put in by a certain power company at a cost that seemed impossible.  The reservoir had been made by the simple process of backing up the water over a large mountain valley.  You could look across the lake and see Mount Lassen as plain as the nose on your face, the peanut butcher declared relishfully.  And the trout in that artificial lake passed all belief.

Every time the boy passed, he stopped for a few remarks.  Pound by pound the trout in Lake Almanor grew larger.  Sentence by sentence Jack learned much that was useful, a little that was needful.  There were several routes to Lake Almanor, for instance.  One could get in by way of Chico, but the winter snow had not left the high summits, so that route was unfeasible for the time being.  The best way just now was by the way of Quincy, a little town up near the head of Feather River Canyon.  The fare was only seven or eight dollars, and since the season had opened one could get reduced rates for the round trip.  That was the way the friend of the peanut butcher had gone in—­only he had stopped off at Keddie and had gone up to the dam with a fellow he knew that worked there.  And he had brought back a trout that weighed practically eight pounds, dressed.  The peanut butcher knew; he had seen it with his own eyes.  They had it hanging in the window of the California Market, and there was a crowd around the window all the time.  He knew; he had seen the crowd, and he had seen the fish; and he knew the fellow who had caught it.